Always Home
by Hotlen
Summary: Hunger Games Lure style!
1. Tulips

I am soooooooo nervous to post this! This was my Big Bang from last September. I never finished it and it sat in my computer until about a month ago when I started writing it again. Let's just say that I've worked really hard on it and I hope you guys enjoy it.

Always Home

Characters: Luke's POV (age 14), Reid (age 17), Little bit of: Casey (16), Lily, Holden, Faith, Natalie, Ethan and other Oakdale characters

Pairings: Luke/Casey, Luke/Reid

Rating: R for violence and language

WARNING: People will die in this, that's the basis of the story. I'm not saying who dies though, but if you've read the book you know how it works.

Synopsis: After a terrible civil war North America is in ruins and is split up into 15 Districts. The country is called Oakdale, it is a totalitarian regime. Every year to mark the anniversary of The Republic crushing the civil war, they celebrate The Reaping where one member of each District must participate in a battle to the death, with one soul survivor.

Thank you: to my wonderful beta, **Slayerkitty** who has been helping me out this past month because apparently I don't know grammar, lol! She has been, and continues to be, a big help so thank you very much!

Author's note: This is based off of Hunger Games. If you've read the book recently or seen the movie the first few chapters might be boring because I'm setting up the premise for those who don't know. It's not exactly the same, I tried to change some parts so I wasn't completely copying. Once it gets into the game itself things will be sort of different. And of course it's with Luke and Reid.

Ps: If anyone feels inclined to make me some fic art, well that would be really nice! PM me if you're interested.

CHAPTER 1

I wrestle awake with a choking thought in my heart. Through the window I can see the dawn breaking against the darkness; the day I have been dreading is finally rising. I slip my covers off, careful not to stir my two sisters and baby brother who share the bed with me. My mother sleeps in a bed across the room, my father's spot already vacant, having slipped out earlier to get work done before The Reaping.

I trudge my bare feet against the packed soil floor, the tips of my toes blue against the cold earth. I grab a few logs as I enter the great room and re-start the fire in the hearth that had died during the night. As smoke creeps up the chimney I make my way to the cabinets and grab cornflower and a mixing bowl. I measure water and flour into the bowl until they combine into a dry dough.

I press the ground corn dough into the palms of my hands and make loosely packed cakes. I dip them in goose fat and set them in a pan to fry. On most days that is all we have to eat, but a few days ago my brother Ethan had his birthday and we were gifted a small jar of strawberry preserves. We have eaten most of it, but I set out the rest on the table. Since today is a special day, one that may be the last that we all eat together, I figure we can have a treat.

Today is the first day of The Reaping. The Reaping is a game, and I use the term loosely, that The Republic has set up. One member of each District is picked to compete against the others in a battle to the death. We are picked at random - the names of every child twelve to eighteen are placed in a cauldron and picked by the Master of Ceremonies. Once picked the child gets a few minutes to say goodbye to their family before being transported by train to the holding center in the middle of The Republic.

A few days later all the kids are put into an arena and set loose with few supplies where they will have to hunt, gather, evade, and kill each other until only one remains alive. All of this carnage is broadcast live throughout Oakdale and the citizens are required to watch.

Today at noon we must dress in our best clothes and join the rest of the District in the square where they will pick the contestant. In my family I am the only one of age to be submitted, my sisters and brother too young yet to join. Some brave children volunteer, for only one person from each family may ever be picked. You can risk your life for your family's safety and this makes your death all the more interesting to watch for the viewers. They love sad stories of heroics and sacrifice. They also love long drawn out bloody deaths.

Although I love my family very much, I am too weak, and too unskilled to join voluntarily. My father and my mother forbid it. And so, this year like the last few, my name will be in amongst all the other children.

Oakdale is made up of 15 Districts and The Republic. Each District has its specialty. My District, District 8, is agriculture. We grow all the food for Oakdale. Even though our District grows all the food, we cannot eat it. The Republic takes it all and gives us the same meager rations as the other 14 Districts. District 9 is next to us and they specialize in medicine. The only time one gets to leave their District is to travel to District 9. Only the severely ill and injured, or pregnant woman around the time of birth may travel to District 9 to get treatment.

Some of the other District specialties are: coal mining in District 7, Districts 5 and 11 house factories that create all the furniture and tools used across Oakdale, District 1 creates precious gem stones; District 2 makes bricks of gold. Districts 1 and 2 are the richest Districts and find it an honor to compete in The Reaping.

"Hey Luke." My father steps in the front door, unlacing his muddy boots from the fields. "I thought you'd sleep in this morning."

"Too nervous," I sigh, flipping the cakes over.

My father, Holden, lays a hand, heavy with work, onto my shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be fine. One out of hundreds."

"I still don't like those odds," I shrug. My father walks over and pokes at the fire, creating hissing and spitting sounds. I turn off the stove top and pile the cakes onto a plate, setting it on the table with the preserves.

"Mother and the kids up yet?"

"Haven't heard a rustle."

My father grabs a hot grease corn cake in his worn callused hands and pulls it apart, dipping pieces into his mouth. "Tastes good, Luke."

I shrug shyly. "It's what there is."

As he munches on his corn cake he enters the bedroom. I hear his deep voice gently sing the kids to wake. It's an old song, passed down through generations from the time of the Civil War. The lyrics are ugly, if you really pay attention, but the melody is smooth and wistful. My father sings it to us at night before we go to sleep, a nightmare wrapped in a lullaby.

I can hear my siblings' tiny voices now through the wood plank wall. My mother is up, directing them with a hushed voice. More tension thickens the air as my sisters, in their dressing gowns, run out to greet me. My fake smile of happy days and children's pleasant dreams is almost too much to bear, but I spread it on my face for them.

"Luke!" The two girls call in unison. They hug me like they always do in the morning but this hug feels tighter, longer, more charged than usual. They might be young but they are wise beyond the years they have been given.

I place sweet kisses to their hair and hold my arms around them comfortingly, "You have a good sleep?"

"Yeah. What's for breakfast?" Faith, the older of the two, asks.

"Corn cakes with preserves."

They look at me without elation of the treat inside their eyes. They do not need to ask the reason for the delicacy, and so they quietly untangle their arms after one last squeeze and take their place at the table.

My mother walks out in her nightdress carrying my two-year-old brother in her arms. "Is breakfast ready?"

"Yeah, I just made it." I lean in and kiss my brother's forehead, who is fighting sleep and trying to stay alert.

"Luke!" He reaches for me and I take him from my mother's arms as she goes to help the girls with breakfast.

"You sleepy, buddy?"

"No!" He squeals indignantly but his eyes fight to stay open.

"We're going to eat the rest of your strawberry preserves, Ethan. If you don't wake up they are going to be all gone!" I speak dramatically.

"No!" He squeals again, this time his eyes spark with energy. He wriggles out of my arms and runs to the table. "Don't eat it all!"

I grab a cake and dip it into the preserves, eating it with my hands as I stand over my sisters who are spreading preserves neatly over their cakes as if they are royalty.

"Luke, sit and eat," my father pulls out a chair for me.

"Can't. I want to go meet Casey before we go to town."

"Don't stay out long. You need to take a bath and dress in your good clothes," my mother says in a nagging tone.

"Yes, mother," I groan with a harsh edge. "I've done this before, I know how it goes."

I go into the bedroom to quickly change into the standard issue long sleeve shirt, blue jean overalls, and work boots. I pull my suede coat around my shoulders before exiting the house. The cold wind bites at my face, the temperature sharply juxtaposed from the warmth of the house.

I walk down the main road lined with two room cabins identical to mine. The glass in the window is broken, leaving sharp misshapen edges. Wood panels rot and crumble while the roofs peel and leak. No one has any money, and The Republic doesn't care enough, to fix their houses, so year after year they fall into greater depths of decay. The smoke from the chimneys mixes in the sky into grey dense clouds blocking out what little sun breaks through the atmosphere. I can see the haze of spring creeping up along the horizon as the sun has yet to rise high. My boots crunch on the gravel of the road. Birds chirp in the budding trees around me, reveling in the fresh air of a new day. A few kids sit at the side of the road poking sticks into the ground, biding their time until noon. Usually at this time I am headed to work in the fields, but since this is the first day of The Reaping, I have planned to meet my best friend, Casey, in the field on the hill.

No one is allowed to go into the field on the hill. It sits shortly outside our District boarder and is used as a reminder of the destruction and bloodshed of the Civil War. Because no one is allowed to exit the District, and because no one would want to go on the hill anyway because of its painful history, it makes a great place to sneak out and talk with my best friend without being found.

He's a dreamer, Casey. He likes to imagine what life must have been like before the Civil War. I assume it was much like what the lucky few who live in The Republic experience every day. They have plentiful food in many varieties that come from the fields we slave over, fancy houses, jewels, fancy clothes, and time to do whatever they want. Maybe all I have seen of The Republic either comes from the TV during announcements or from underground propaganda my father receives, but I believe it to be true. I see how wealthy and fat they are. They feed off of the Districts like parasites while many of us starve.

Citizens stealing food from the fields and orchards is against the law. They set you up against a stake in the District square and flog you, or beat you to death, depending on the severity of your crime. Most "criminals" are hurt so badly they are taken to District 9, but never return. I don't think they are really taken to District 9, and Casey has many theories about what really happens to them.

Even though it is against the law, Casey found a way to sew pockets into the chest of our shirts. We can't hold much but a few apples, or a hand full of berries; some carrots or tomatoes, but even that is enough to keep our families from starvation.

I look behind me to make sure the road is empty before I turn off into the woods at the edge of the District. I startle birds that fly up with agitation from their perch as I run through the trees. A quarter of a mile through the trees it opens up into a valley with a white water river flowing through it. This marks the end of District 8. On the other side of the river a solid brick fence encases the entire District. They box you in so you can't escape.

Above the fence, in case you get crafty and find a way to climb it, is an electrical barbed wire that runs the length. They make it impossible to go over it, but not so impossible to go under it. I find the stones that make a bridge across the water and hop expertly to the other side. A few paces away there's a boulder that covers the entrance to a cave Casey dug.

Normally The Republic would have inspectors come out to check the length of the fence for any broken bricks or places where the electricity was down, but this spot is different. They don't expect any citizens to come to the hill, and more realistically, they don't want to visit it. I move the boulder easily and shimmy my way under the fence, spitting out dirt on the other side. Now all that stands between me and Casey is a field of red and yellow tulips that paint the hill. You can see them from any place in the District.

I trip up the hill, panting as I go, the wind creeping under my jacket, the earth mucky from last night's rain caking my hands. I scramble up to the top to see between the red and yellow flowers a torn blue cap riding low between the stems.

"Casey!" I hiss.

"Yo, dude! Wasn't sure you'd come. We said 6:30."

"Sorry. I didn't realize the time I guess." I lay down amongst the tall stems beside Casey. The muddy ground up here feels warm against my back. We are high enough now to break through the low morning clouds and get a taste of sunlight. Even though Casey and I have been trudging up here any chance we get for the past three years, the tulips grow undisturbed covering our tracks, as if they are watching out for us.

Casey is two years older than I; he only has two more Reapings to get through before his name will be ineligible.

"So, here we are." Casey picks a blade of grass and sucks it between his teeth. "Another one of these damn games."

"At least you only have two left to go." I offer pathetically. He looks at me with an angry roll of the eyes. "Yeah, I know." I pick my own blade of grass and twist it around my fingers.

"I don't understand why people let them get away with it. If you ask me it's all a piece of bull shit propaganda. I bet if we organized we could crush The Republic. I bet you anything they don't even have an army. They keep us scared enough with the notion that they could do something they don't have to do anything. Fear is a lot more powerful than a sword."

"You're lucky you're up here spouting that and not in town. You'd be arrested."

"No shit, that's why I'm saying it here. Is everything OK with you, Snyder?"

"Oh yeah, peachy."

"Yeah, I know." His eyes look down at his chest and he plucks a new blade of grass.

"What if one of us gets picked?"

"I'm hoping someone volunteers like last year. That was sweet. Stupid Abigail Williams raises her hand all excited to go in and then she got killed in what, the first ten minutes?"

"She wasn't excited to fight; she was excited to save the rest of her family."

"Bullshit move, the odds of her getting picked are far less compared to the odds that she would die in the game."

"If your brother was still old enough to be picked you might do the same."

Casey sits up quick and glares at me. "Don't even say it, Snyder. Don't tell me you're thinking of going in to save your sisters and brother."

"Cool your jets, Casey, I wouldn't. If I thought I had a chance of winning I might consider it, but look at me. My body is made for climbing trees in an orchard, not beating men to death. I wouldn't last a minute. I'd die of fright. As you say, fear is stronger than swords."

"OK… good…" Casey says slowly, hesitantly laying back beneath the red tulips.

"What happens if one of us does go in?"

"We make a pledge right here to fight."

"Maybe we should make a game plan, you know? Figure out the best way for kids like us, with no experience, no knowledge of tools besides a shovel and a spade, to stay alive."

"I'll tell you one thing I wouldn't do. When does the most killing happen?"

"At the beginning of the game," I say quickly, no thought needed. In the first ten minutes of the game blood spills from every direction. At one Reaping eight kids died in a matter of minutes.

"Right. And why? Because they are trying to get supplies from The Center Square. Unless you're strong, skilled, and fast, there's no reason to go for the supplies right away. I would run for cover. Wait until the blood bath is over and kids spread out, and then go back and see if there's anything left."

"Yeah but remember a few years ago a kid form District 14 tried that, and the bigger kids had formed an alliance and booby trapped it somehow. They were waiting for the weaker kids to come back. The best way to stay alive, depending on what they give you to work with in terms of terrain, is to stay alive by your own means. I'd climb up to the highest tree and wait for dark, then find as much food and water as I could and climb back up as high as I could and wait for everyone else to kill each other."

"You'd die. Besides, there'd still be one person left you'd have to kill unless you got lucky and two people killed each other simultaneously."

"Or, the last one is wounded and all I have to do is wait for them to bleed to death or get an infection."

"Hope it's not the kid from District 9, he'd know how to cure it."

I laugh gaily. "This is stupid, there are hundreds of kids eligible for The Reaping; we are not going to be picked."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Let's hope some poor sap volunteers to save his family, that'd be nice, then we could skip the drama of waiting for them to call the name."

"It sucks having to watch them die, though."

"It would suck more to watch you die," Casey says thoughtfully. He gives me a look that I have only seen a few times, but I've always wondered what it meant. A look of sadness and caring, with a pinch of something more, as if he's trying to get inside me. My body shivers at the thought. I smile inwardly to myself as the wind blows the tulips down to tickle my cheek with their velvet petals. I can't deny that I have thought about Casey in a more than platonic way. He has blonde hair that he tries to brush back but always flops over his eyes. I'll catch him puffing air up to move them aside, and the action flutters my heart.

Casey is strong, in a different way than everyone in the District is strong from manual labor in the fields and orchards. Casey is strong because he works at during our off time. His smile is cute, playful, cheeky. Especially when he uses his dry sarcasm on someone at school and the insult goes over their head. He'll look at me with pride and cunning curving his lips and twinkling his eyes and I know the look is only for me. I'm the only one who can interpret it. I have never spoken to Casey about my feelings, I can't; he'd totally freak. We've been best friends since I was five and I'd never do anything to risk losing our friendship.

"Well, anyway." Casey breaks me from my thoughts. "If you get picked don't die on me, Snyder." He masks his affection with straightforward commands. I know the way he talks, I know the meaning behind his words, but he still adds a soft wink between the rows of stems to show how much he cares.

"You-u do-don't die either, OK?" My voice comes out wavy, my mind trying to erase the idea he could care about me as more than a brother.

"I can't die, Snyder. I still have so much to teach you." He sits up and brushes dirt from his hair. I sit up too and my face is hit by fierce sunlight. The clouds of the morning have burned away and left the sky an untouched blue.

"For a day that started out so cold, it's going to be a hot one."

"Oh _great_." Casey throws his grass stems to the dirt. "If The Republic doesn't kill me in their game my mother is going to kill me for sweating through my nice clothes."

I laugh and he joins in. The laughter finally cuts the tension of the day and rolls down the hill to the bubbling stream.

"I think you'll be alright," he says seriously, once the laughter dies down. "And so will I."

"Even if I die there will be more like me. We will keep coming. There will always be people ripe to pick for The Reaping. I think you're right, Casey, they can't kill us all and they know it, so they do this to act like they could. But if they could kill us all then they wouldn't play games to show it."

"Stop being brilliant, Snyder." Casey reaches over and ruffles my spiky short hair before standing and stretching. "Damn, that sun feels good. I wish I were in the fields today instead of standing around in the District square. I could work on my tan."

"You don't need to work on your tan, you look good. You always look good." _Oh shit_. I look down to the ground and glide my fingers over the warm soil. My heart is pounding against my chest and I hope he can't hear it like I hope he didn't hear my last comment. But he did.

"Luke, Luke, look at me." Shyly I look up at him from under my eyelashes, his head haloed by the rising sun. "I know, Luke." Three simple words, but I know the meaning behind them like I know the meaning behind all the words he speaks. I swallow hard, my fingers digging into the soil now.

"You, um, you, what?" I stammer, feigning ignorance.

He bends down on his haunches in front of me. Softly I feel his fingertips glide over my cheekbone. I'm dreaming. I gotta be dreaming. My heart suddenly slows and my body relaxes. My eyes are closed and all I see is the pink specks of sunlight trying to penetrate my eyelids.

"I know," he whispers again and I feel his breath against my skin so close. And then suddenly his lips are against mine, softly, gently pressing together, and then apart. "I gotta go." His voice is steady, but a whisper. I nod with acknowledgement, my eyes still closed. I hear the flutter of tulip blossoms as he hurries away. When he's gone I press my fingertips to my lips. There's no way. I must have imagined it. I must have fallen asleep up here on the hill and my 14-year-old boy crush must have taken over. I open my eyes and I'm sitting in the field of red tulips. The space where I dreamed Casey lay is undisturbed. Flowers wave back and forth against the wind, not a single one crushed by weight.

I stand up on shaky legs and dust my pants off. I sigh to myself as I walk back down the hill, what a wonderful dream, maybe the last good one I'll ever have. I stop short though, when I get to the rounded edge of the hill and see a tiny white speck near the river below. It hops its way across the stream before disappearing into the woods that line the edge of District 8.

_Holy shit_. My feet give out from under me and my butt smacks against the solid ground with a cracking sound. "That was real," I whisper out, and the wind gusts across the hilltop, leaves rustling a high-pitched reply. "Yes."


	2. The Offering

CHAPTER 2

I fuss in front of the mirror with the knot in my tie. The end of the tie is longer than the front of the tie and it makes me look boyish and simple. I see my mother reflected in the mirror as she pins up my sister's hair. My father is crouched on the ground dressed in his charcoal suit, slipping on Ethan's tiny loafers.

"Screw this!" I cry in defiance ripping the tie from around my neck and throwing it on the floor. My mom looks up at me inside the mirror, a scowl on her face from my swear, but she says nothing. My father sets Ethan down on the soil and walks over to me, scooping up my tie. He stands behind me, wrapping it around my neck like a noose. iHang me/i, I think to myself, ihang me now so I don't have to be around when they do it for me./i

"There you go," my father smiles, sad and proud, as he swishes the knot up to my Adam's apple. He kisses the back of my head, his eyes closing for a brief second, feeling me, smelling me, wondering if he'll ever get me back, before he turns away and scoops my brother up once more.

"We'd better get going." My mother's strong voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn from the mirror as my sisters flounce in their faded white and pink flowered dresses with pink ribbons tied around their waists.

I take a deep breath and flatten my hands down my slacks, feeling the wet clamminess slick down my legs. "Sure, yeah, let's get this over with." I nod. My mother holds Faith and Natalie's hands and walks out first. My father scoops up Ethan and follows behind me, resting a strong hand on my shoulder for the moment, as he had done earlier today.

"Whatever happens," he says in a very serious tone amidst my brother's incoherent babbles over his shoulder, "Remember that you are a Snyder. Never underestimate the power of where you came from. Of who you belong to."

Not knowing what else to say in the midst of what could be the eve of my death, I nod and give him a pathetic, "I know."

I am lined up in the middle of the district square amongst hundreds of 14-year-olds. Everyone eligible for The Reaping is sorted and grouped by their age and corralled in rope circles in front of the stage. I can feel Casey's presence, even though I cannot see him, I know he's here. He has to be here. I feel his heart pounding with mine, his kiss still lingering on my parched lips. It is hot now in the full spring sun and all I want is for them to call the name so that I can go home and get a glass of water. Instead we must wait for the entirety of District 8 to assemble before the horrific festivities begin.

To the side of the stage and the children corrals, the family members stand under the oppressive sun, as we all stand here under the oppressive Republic.

My parents, sisters, and little brother are lost in the multitude of bodies. I wonder if they can see me, for I am easier to spot than they.

On the stage there is a glass podium and on it sits a glass cauldron that holds hundreds of slivers of paper. You'd think it would be grander than that, but it's not, and one of those pieces of paper has my name on it, Luke Snyder, ripe for the picking. Ready to be plucked from the cauldron as simply as we pluck fruit from this earth and give it to the Republic, so they pluck us and hand us over as fruit. To be chewed up and spit out. To be killed for sport, for entertainment.

There are three chairs on the stage to the left of a podium. In front of the stage in a pit are the camera crew, for this lovely event is being broadcast to not only The Republic but every other District, just as I in the days before have watched Districts 1-7 go through this same ritual. On one of the chairs sits the Master of Ceremonies, Lucinda Walsh, a regally ornate older woman with a nose like a bird's beak and harsh wide eyes. She visits each district and picks the name out of the cauldron. Beside her sits Craig Montgomery, a fat graying man with dark menacingly suspicious eyes whom, years ago when he was of age, competed and won The Reaping for our District. He will be the mentor, as he is every year, for whoever gets picked today. Of course, he doesn't have much to do since our Offering usually gets killed the first day of The Reaping. Apparently he's not a very good mentor.

Casey once said that he thinks Craig Montgomery gives the Offering's bad advice to make sure they die, so that no one will win and challenge his position as the only survivor of The Reaping from District 8. I decided years ago that if I am picked, I won't listen to a word Craig Montgomery says.

Next to fat gray Craig Montgomery sits the Mayor of District 8, Henry Coleman. He's an eccentric simpleton with a flair for the dramatic. Mayor Coleman is like the sun in our sea of despair. While we all wear raggedy clothes, the colors washed out from them years ago making us all identical in hues of grey and faded blues. Mayor Coleman's wardrobe on the other hand, is vibrant and impeccable. He is showy and energetic with very few ideas or thoughts of his own; a perfect mouthpiece for The Republic.

The Mayor doesn't have much in the way of power, which suits Henry fine, but The Republic gives each District a Mayor to make them feel like they have some sort of say to what happens to them. All the Mayor actually does is make tired speeches to the cameras and show up once a year on the first day of The Reaping to witness the name being picked from the cauldron.

I crane my neck once again over the heads of my peers, across the roped in corrals in hopes of catching a glimpse of Casey. But he is far away from me, passed the masses of 15-year-olds, in the company of all those sixteen. A hush falls over the crowd and I look up to the stage, red lights flickering on the cameras, as Lucinda Walsh takes to the microphone, puffing into the microphone, sending a large rumbling over the square.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, those of you privileged to be of age to compete in The Reaping, I welcome you all of District 8 here today where I will pick the name of this year's Offering out of the cauldron!" She says this in a cheerful grandiose tone of wonderment, as if she is calling the start of a marvelous sporting event. There is no acknowledgement of her words by the crowd during her pause; only the rustling of feet and clearing of throats cut the silence. She continues as if she has been showered with excitement and cheers. "Every year at this time we pay homage to The Republic who 70 years ago united us under one leader and created the country of Oakdale!" Once again she pauses for cheers. What an interesting way to put the destruction of North America and the slaughter of millions and the slavery of generations: a uniting under one leader. "One of you here today before me will receive the ultimate tribute, to be sent into the Reaping as your District's Offering and be given the chance to perform in front of the Nation and win your District prestige!" Again, a romantic way of saying "You'll be forced into a death trap and watched as you die."

"I'd like to ask at this time if anyone of age would like to volunteer themselves?" She pauses and every head turns around them. iPlease, please, someone be stupid enough or selfless enough and volunteer yourself for slaughter. End this now so I can go home and take a drink of water./i The moment for volunteering passes without a peep and Lucinda Walsh clears her throat once again into the microphone, "Since there is no one ready to volunteer it is now time, citizens of District 8, to pick the Offering's name from the cauldron and see whom the lucky boy or girl is!"

She neatly skips over to the glass cauldron. She dives her hands into it, rustling it around for dramatic effect, pretending to pull a piece of paper out and then heisting, dropping it back in and reaching for another. My heart is beating so fast it has stopped and my blood pools into my feet, my head light with white nothingness. Finally, after pawning with us, she pulls her hand out and unravels the bit of paper. She reads the name to herself and nods her head approvingly, as if she knows the kid in person and approves of them.

She skips once more to the microphone and reads out the poor kid's name. I can barely hear through the whooshing of my ear, through the gasps of children around me, through the sighs of relief and pangs of horror as she says "Luke Snyder!" clearly into the microphone. There is an image of her standing at the microphone clapping, the piece of paper, which holds my name, drifts down to the stage floor like a rotting autumn leaf. No one applauds. The air is still and heavy. I look up where a towering screen projects my image. My face is confused, bewildered, as if I moments ago landed on this planet and have no idea how it works. I watch on the screen as the children around me pull away from me, backing away as not to associate themselves with the newly chosen Offering.

I glance down at my arm; it feels foreign and detached, as if I'd never seen it before. Someone else places their hand against me and I feel the sensation of being pulled, tugged, and pushed towards the stage. My head cranes backwards, too heavy for my neck. Through my muddied mind I make out Casey. He is straining against the ropes of his corral. His mouth is wide open in a silent scream, words that will never reach me. I see the fear tearing at his throat, his eyes wide with rage and terror. I trip up steps and find myself facing a million mechanical eyes. The cameras wire my image to every household of Oakdale.

"Well done, my boy!" Lucinda Walsh claps my back harshly and I nearly throw up. I can hear a woman weeping and I suppose it is my mother. There is nothing they can do now. No one volunteered and now no one can take my place. Lucinda Walsh is trying to get the audience to applaud for me. I feel sick, unsteady like I do when I stand on thin tree branches that bend under my weight. The waves of faces make me dizzy. She puts a microphone to my face, pressing me to address my fellow citizens. I open my mouth and only a short gasp comes out and murmurs over the silence. She seems frustrated with me, for this is no way for a new Offering to act. She instead abandons me at the side of the podium and goes to interview Mayor Coleman, who is prancing about happily on the stage, and then moves on to Craig Montgomery asking if he thinks I've got a chance at winning.

Winning. I look down at my stringy arms and legs, good only for climbing up trees. All of a sudden the reality hits me. I'm going to be dead in a few days. Dead, as in never seeing my mother or my father again. Dead, as in not seeing my little brother and sisters grow up. Dead, as in never being able to ask Casey what his kiss meant. Dead, gone, buried and forgotten in only a few short days.


	3. Train Ride

Chapter 3:

I am woken by a loud knock. I open my eyes to find myself curled up on the floor of a large empty room with high ceilings and wood paneled walls. Windows look out across the District square where, however long ago now, my name was picked.

"Luke!" The heavy wooden door swings open and my brother runs in on wobbly legs.

I pull myself up on my knees as he crashes into me, my arms enveloping him in a tight hug. My parents and sisters walk in nervously behind Ethan. I can see tears strain behind my sister's eyes, seconds away from falling.

"Come here," I whisper gently to them, opening up my arms for them to rush into as well. I hold them tightly as they cry cold circles into my shoulders. "Sh, girls, it's alright."

"We'll never see you again!" Natalie wails.

"You never know, Nat, I might win."

"Luke, you promised to never lie to us." I stare up at Faith; pieces of her hair have pulled loose from her braid and fall over her eyes, shielding the tears in her eyes.

"Well, I'll try."

"I don't want you to die," Natalie mumbles into my shoulder.

"I don't want to either."

"Luke's going to die?" Ethan asks curiously, looking up at me.

"Hey, buddy, don't think about it." Ethan turns back to our parents, panic on his face, wondering if we're teasing him as we sometimes do about eating all the pancakes. My parents look down, unable to look their two-year-old in the eyes. "Ethan, look at me."

Ethan turns back to me, huge drops of tears swinging on his long soft lashes, "Why?"

I shrug, having no answer for him. Why does his brother have to go off to be killed? Because the people in power say so? Because this is what we do every year and no one has ever tried to stop it? There's no explanation good enough to justify the interruption to his world.

When Ethan realizes I am not going to answer him, the tears that were waiting suddenly flow from his eyes and he buries his small body against mine. As the children sob into my clothes, I look up at my parents who tower over me, a stoic look on my mother's face, my father looking morose and a little bit sick.

"Girls, Ethan, come here," my mother snaps coldly. Slowly the girls part from me, walking backwards to my mother, drinking in the last moments they have with their older brother.

"Come on, Ethan," my father says more gently, bending down to scoop the hysterical child into his arms. Ethan attaches to my father like a leech and continues his wailing.

I stand slowly, facing my family, watching my mother, waiting for words. "Well?" I ask finally, when the words never come.

"Luke," my father interrupts our stare down. "There's so much I want to say and yet no words I can find to say them. I remember the first time I saw you, your mother stepped off the train from District 9 with a bundle of boy in her arms." He smiles nostalgically, pausing as the vision crosses his eyes, "You had these large expressive eyes, and with one look you captured my heart. Now, fourteen years later I have to watch you board the same train, only this time…" his words catch in his throat and he buries his face in Ethan's hair.

"Bookends," I mutter.

The door opens again and two men wearing the familiar uniforms of The Republic police walk in, "Time's up."

"No!" Faith screeches, running back to me, holding on for dear life.

"Faith, it's alright, don't worry about me. You're safe now. None of you will ever have to go to The Reaping. You don't have to be afraid anymore. Your name can never be called."

"I don't care! I want my brother!"

"Faith!" My mother's tone is sharp, and she wears a look of embarrassment on her face.

I slowly pull Faith away from me, holding on to her hands and bending down a bit to look her straight in the eyes, "Take care of Ethan and Natalie for me. You're the oldest now."

"No…Luke…"

"I'm sorry."

"Now!" We all turn as the police officers rush in. One grabs Faith who kicks and screams her way to the door, the other ushering my parents out like cattle.

"We love you, Luke!" is the last thing I hear.

I rush towards the door as it slams shut and grab on to the handle, tugging as hard as I can against the lock. The door doesn't budge. I press my back to it and let my body slide down to the floor, hugging my knees against my chest. Faith's cries of protest echo in my head, the vision of my brother's pain filled eyes stays in my mind, and the wet hot feel of Natalie's tears on my shoulder are still stuck to my skin.

I feel a slight push to my back as the door creeks open again. Another figure is shoved through the slight opening, stumbling inside my empty room. I look up at the figure to catch the familiar eyes of Casey.

"Casey!" I jump to my feet and collapse into his arms, feeling him hold me close.

"How are you holding up?" He asks, his hands smoothing comforting lines against my back.

The terror that I'd held in for my family finally comes to the surface, and I feel my body shake against Casey, racked with sobs. "I can't win, Casey, I'm going to die."

"Listen to me, Luke. Are you listening?"

"Yes, of course," I sniffle, lifting my puffy eyes to his.

"You only remain a victim if you allow it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't sell yourself short."

"I don't know what to do, how to defend myself, how to fight and kill."

"Run, Luke. That's all you need to do. Find the tallest tree you can climb up and hide, wait them out, let the others kill each other first. Promise me you won't do anything stupid; just run and hide.

"But you said that was stupid..."

"Promise me!"

"I promise."

Casey hugs me tighter, nearly suffocating me and whispers in my ear, "Don't let them win. Don't let them take you, Luke. You're too good for them."

"I won't, I promise. Now you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Take care of my family. Whatever happens, don't let them starve."

"I won't. You have my word. I'll bring them food. I'll look after the kids."

The police officers emerge again through the door and growl, "Time's up." I pull back from Casey's embrace and wipe my eyes. This is the last time Casey and I will see each other and I don't want my eyes clouded in sorrow. I want him to look into me, see my true feelings, how much I love him, how much I need him, not the fear The Republic has given me. Casey nods in understanding, his eyes as clear and open as mine.

"Now!" They yell as before, marching towards Casey.

Casey grabs my face in his hands and kisses me hard. The kiss is rough, intense, needy. Neither of us is thinking, we're feeling each other, committing the feel of our hands on each other's skin, the way his lips taste, his breath feels, to memory, before it's taken away.

Casey is yanked from my grasp. The police grab Casey's shoulders and drag him towards the door.

"I wish I had more time with you!" Casey yells before the door slams once again separating us.

I collapse again onto the floor, burying my head in my hands, willing myself not to cry, not yet, not where they can see. My body shakes with realization that my entire life has been taken away from me. Destroying my life one piece at a time before they take my blood and breath.

I hear a creek and look up once more as the door opens. Craig Montgomery walks in and stares down at my huddled mass on the floor.

"Luke, the train's waiting."

My breath hitches as I stare up at Craig. Slowly I get up, my body groaning with the strain. It feels as if I've been awake for days.

I follow Craig out of the building where a few people linger after the ceremony, lined up from the town hall, where I have been kept, to the waiting train. They watch me solemnly, like a funeral procession, heads bowed, eyes downcast as I walk stiffly to the train car. I step up on the platform, holding the handrail to the train and look back. I stare across the sea of grey for a familiar face, but find none.

My heart sinks, feeling as if I've already lost. They will move on, my family, the district. Casey will get new friends; my siblings will soon have their own families, next year another Offering will be picked. Will I be remembered at all? Or will I get lost in the names of children who have gone before me, will continue to go in after me into The Reaping and never be heard of again? I gaze over the faces of my district one last time, desperate to see someone familiar, a memory to hold on to, but the faces and bodies blend together, a mass of gray sadness. As I step into the train car my heart has never felt so tight and yet scattered in so many pieces.

I enter the train and am blinded by the sheen off of the sparkling decor. The train car is glimmering, clean and opulent. Crystal chandeliers twinkle and clatter above me like chimes. Large tables, piled high with food on silver platters, stretch the length of the train car. I walk over slowly to one of the tables, my fingers brushing against the silk tablecloth. Cakes, pastries, sweets the like I've never seen before start my mouth watering. Large glass pitchers are filled with strange colored liquids. I turn my head back to look at Craig who has made himself comfortable on one of the many couches covered in fabric I've never seen before, dyed in colors as wild as Mayor Coleman.

"What is all this?" I whisper in wonder.

"Welcome to The Republic, kid."

"But why? For me?"

"For everyone." Craig stands and walks over to me, grabbing one of the curious looking pastries and taking a bite. Red jelly flows out from the center of the crust. "They like to treat you well before they send you into the arena."

"Why? It doesn't make any sense. Why waste all this food, and these beautiful things on people they care so little about?"

Craig pops the rest of the pastry into his mouth and shrugs. "For fun? Come on, I'll show you to your room."

I follow Craig down a hallway to the next train car. I raise my hand to open the door but jump back as it quickly slides away automatically. Craig huffs, as if unamused, and pushes me forward.

"Here." He says at the first door on the left. "This is your room until we reach The Republic." I step through the automatic door to my room. Craig does not follow me, instead he continues down the hall and the door shuts again.

I take a look around at my quarters. There is a large bed that takes up most of the room. Across from the bed is a dresser made of oak with ornate gold pulls. Above it a mirror hangs in a gold carved frame. I step in front of the mirror and am shocked at the haggard appearance that reflects back to me. I hardly recognize myself. My blonde hair, usually crusted up in spikes now lays greasy and matted to my head. My eyes have circles around them, dark and cavernous. The usual spark that accompanies my sweet and gentle chocolate eyes has now faded into gut retching fear. My skin looks ghost grey instead of the usual sun tinted gold.

I turn away, disgusted, and lay on the bed, the mattress soft and bouncy beneath me. I slip off my shoes and curl up, pulling the covers over me, cuddling into the soft fluffy blankets. In my emotional exhaustion I fall into a deep dreamless sleep.

My eyes flicker open. The bed bounces beneath me as the train is now moving, rumbling from side to side. I shake my head and sit up in the bed. Out the window the world moves by quickly.

I slip out of the comforter and my bare feet tingle on the vibrating floor of my compartment. I walk to the window and look out. The world passes by in a dizzying streak and I nearly fall over from the sensation. I've never been on anything that moved so fast. The electric poles pass quickly by the train window. The lines and poles remind me of filmstrip I've seen The Republic load into their cameras for recording the events of The Reaping. Now it makes movies of my misery.

Suddenly my compartment door slides open and Craig Montgomery walks in, face hard and glaring. "Let's get on with this. We need to work out your strategy for the game."

"Look, no offense, but I don't want your help. Every other Offering has died doing what you say, so I'd like to figure this one out on my own, thank you."

"You think I like doing this? Every year getting to know a kid and then watching them die? I give them my best advice and it never works. Don't you think I spend every waking hour, which are more and more of the hours of the day as the years wear on, going over and over strategy and skill and technique and any conceivable way to win this damn thing? Look, kid, I was your age when I went in and I survived which means it is possible. Now I understand that just because I won doesn't mean I know how to beat it. I know that I won on a fluke, but I'm the best chance you've got."

"No, I am," I say decisively. "I'm all I've got. I don't care about all the ways you've been thinking about over the years to win this thing; it doesn't work. So now I have to think of the best way for me to die with some dignity left, before The Republic strips it away from me by turning me into their puppet." I take a deep breath through my panting. "I'm going to wait it out as long as I can and then when it nears the end and I can't hide anymore, I'll kill myself. Take away the pleasure from The Republic of watching me be murdered. I'll exercise my last right, to die on my own terms."

Craig stares at me open mouthed. I can imagine that he's never heard of an Offering so willingly accept death. The others go in with the thought they can win and they die. I go in thinking I can die, because I'll never truly win. They have already won by making me their pawn. Even if I survive I'll end up like Craig Montgomery - a fat, shifty-eyed man who does nothing more in his life than think about The Reaping every second of the day. He is still trapped on The Reaping field, facing his opponents. His spirit has already died there.

"Fine, you do what you want. At least this time your death won't be my fault." He runs his bulbous fingers through his gray, thinning hair. "Come on," Craig's deep voice booms, "It's time for dinner and a recap of today's events."

"What?"

"Every year the new Offering watches the footage of the other District's cauldron picking. It is supposed to give you a glimpse of your opponents to size them up and begin to create your strategy."

"Well I have no strategy and I'd rather not see the people who are out for my blood."

"Too bad, kid. Those are the rules." With a firm grip to my wrist Craig yanks me out of my compartment. My legs feel like jelly on the strange jolting floor and my body is tossed this way and that, but Craig keeps his hold on me and drags me to the dining compartment. A table is set up with exquisite china and silver utensils. Craig shoves me down in a seat in front of a TV screen built into the compartment wall. He sits beside me and once seated, a back door slides open. People dressed in pressed shirts and slacks come in carrying tray after tray of food that smells of the fields in District 8 at harvest time. My starved stomach growls from the scent alone and my mouth starts to salivate. I have always wondered what kinds of food The Republic made with our bounty. The people wordlessly begin to fill my plate with meat and vegetables, rolls and gravy. They fill my crystal glass with a dark liquid I've never seen before. As soon as Craig and I's plates are stacked full the people leave and the TV in front of me flickers on.

A black and white screen reads "District 1" and fades into their citizens gathered around a stage, the children of Reaping age corralled into the same lines. Lucinda Walsh takes the stage and repeats the same words she says at every cauldron picking. She reaches her hand into the cauldron and a tense hush falls over the crowd that even through a TV screen hours later I can feel inside my own heart. She reads "Chris Hughes" from the paper and the crowd erupts in applause. The camera searches the corrals of children until an ogre looking monster, gnarled face and claw like hands, walks proudly to the stage. His voice is low and gargled, his words mangled from a thick accent as he speaks words I can't comprehend into the microphone he's choking with his fist. The crowd erupts once more into cheers and Lucinda Walsh seems very pleased with this reaction. She walks over to their Mayor who is beside himself with pride and excitement. A line of past Offerings also gathers on the stage. District 1 and 2 have many winners to choose from to be their mentor, for they have won the most games in the 70 years of The Reaping.

The screen goes black again and "District 2" appears before fading into a similar scene, only this time a girl's name is called, "Katie Parretti" and out from the crowd a 5'7 muscular 16-year-old girl appears. She has long wavy blonde hair and her face is pure gold, maybe it was stained from the work she does pressing gold nuggets from the mining District into bricks. She walks with grace to the stage and grabs the microphone from Lucinda Walsh whom she towers over considerably. "I am honored today to be your Offering for these Reaping games." She says in a sparkling clear voice. Her eyes, flaked with gold, scan the crowd with importance. They cheer for her as the Mayor of District 2 is interviewed, saying that she is the most beautiful girl in their District and that her beauty alone will save her from murder, for who would want to destroy such a gorgeous sight as she?

Once more the screen goes blank and "District 3" appears on the screen and the name read this time is "Will Munson." He's an older boy, standing with the 18-year-olds. He has the unlucky fortune of being picked on the last year he is eligible for The Reaping. The only way to describe his look is sad. His eyes are like a basset hound; his clothes ill fitting, and his posture poor. He doesn't look scared. He looks confused but still promises his District he'll try his best. The screen goes blank once more on poor Will Munson.

The screen returns to tell me we are now in District 4. Lucinda Walsh with her pinched face and beaked nose once again reaches into the cauldron and reads "Alison Stewart" from the paper. A skinny, streamlined girl is pushed through the masses of kids towards the stage. Her shoulders stick out like square wings and her arms look three times the length of her body. She has the perfect body type for a swimmer, which her District needs since they are the fishing District and live at the edge of an ocean. Alison Stewart takes the stage and flips back her high tight ponytail of straw brown hair.

"I hope to do you all proud." She says into the microphone Lucinda Walsh has pressed into her hand. Her voice is nervous, but from her posture her nervousness seems more from standing in front of an audience and cameras watched by millions of people than for the idea that she is now being sent to die.

"District 5" appears on the screen and yet another cauldron picking scene is shown, variations of the same scene. This time Lucinda Walsh says "Jade Taylor." The District falls into a hush, not the horrified hush of finally knowing the poor child who will be slaughtered, but a hush of fear for themselves. Fear of a dark skinny girl with curly wild hair and fierce eyes who commandingly takes the stage. They whisper to each other about her, as if this girl already has a deadly reputation. Though she is small, she looks as if she could kill. Her face and hands are worn hard from the manufacturing her District specializes in.

"Get ready boys and girls," She speaks into the microphone with a wicked smile, "because I have a taste for blood." Lucinda Walsh applauds happily with this, her bony frame jumping for joy, her long wrinkled hands clapping together excitedly.

"Well, well, it looks like the cauldron picked the right girl for the job! This is shaping up to be the best Reaping in years!"

"And one more thing." Jade adds ripping the microphone away from Lucinda Walsh, "To all the other Offerings watching, I hope you enjoy long slow painful deaths."

Her words echo in my head as the screen goes blank. I know I should be scared, I know she's talking about me. But The Reaping field feels like a dark fairytale, so far off that I can't be scared. Jade Taylor acts like a caricature, what she assumes the model Offering would be, but something behind her words seems disingenuous. She's a scared child, same as me.

"District 6" appears. This crowd looks more subdued. Looking at some of their bodies I can tell they are starved and weak like me, a sharp contrast to the rich Districts of 1 and 2. Once again Lucinda Walsh says her speech and reaches into the cauldron. "Maddie Hyatt!" Lucinda Walsh declares with a happy squeal. The crowd is hushed and I hear a woman scream as a tiny girl with wavy chocolate hair that falls into her eyes - reminiscent of Casey - walks to the stage. Maddie mumbles into the microphone, voice choked with tears, her hidden eyes dripping salt down her cheek. Lucinda Walsh, like with me, looks displeased by Maddie's reaction and disgustingly makes her way to their Mayor. As their Mayor speaks, I can't take my eyes off Maddie, who is wasting away in the corner of the screen. She looks so fragile. Her body is still undeveloped; she still has baby fat in her cheeks. She can't be older than thirteen.

District 7 is next, the District that mines all the gems, minerals, gold, coal, and steel. Lucinda Walsh reads "Noah Mayer" and a large boy appears from the 16-year-old group. He is stocky with broad shoulders, hair as dark as the coal he mines; his eye squinting against a sun he rarely sees. He looks like an ox, muscles bulging against his old dress clothes. His words to the crowd are lost as a man I presume to be his father yells out, "You go get them Noah! This is the man I've taught you to become!" With those words, the ox-like Noah Mayer shies away from the microphone and takes the long walk off the stage towards the train.

District 8 appears and I watch as my name is called. My face goes blank, eyes wide, skin pale, mouth open. I watch hands push me up to the stage. I can see my legs tremble, threatening to crumble under my own unbearable weight. I watch myself as if remembering a dream; feels vaguely familiar but untouchable. Lucinda Walsh is shoving the microphone into my face and looks absolutely disgusted when my mouth hangs open and my eyes glass over. She walks to Mayor Colman who is flouncing around the stage in his pink and orange striped shirt, purple starred tie and purple corduroy pants. He looks like a sunset and flitters like a humming bird. I see myself collapse as he is speaking to Lucinda Walsh, and then the screen goes black.

The white letters read on the black screen read "District 9" and they fade into the next cauldron pick, the scene much the same as all the rest. Crowds of people and caged children, Lucinda Walsh and her scripted speech recited with the same affect to each word. This time the name read out is "Reid Oliver" and after some scuttlebutt in the rows of 17-year-olds out appears a wiry, be-speckled kid with auburn hair that curls around his ears and against the nape of his neck. He takes the stage on similarly shaky legs as mine, but his face remains stoic. If he is feeling anything, you can't tell. The only part of his body that speaks is his mesmerizingly blue eyes. Blue eyes strong enough to capture you through a camera lens artificially recreated on a screen. Lucinda Walsh, much the same as with me, is shoving the microphone in his face. He glares at her; only his eyes speak for a moment until he finally takes the microphone into slender fingers. They grasp the microphone as if it were a delicate object. He turns from Lucinda Walsh to look at the crowds and straight into the camera lens.

Without anger, without fear, without any emotion except a hint of annoyance, he says clearly with a dismissive shrug, "I don't care."

Reid drops the microphone to the stage and a gut-wrenching screech zings through the air as he walks off the stage towards the train station to be taken away. The cameras fade quickly to black and reappears with "District 10".

Reid Oliver's words echo in my head as the picking of the Offering for District 10 begins -i "I don't care."/i Lucinda Walsh calls out "Kevin Davis!" and a boy looking near identical to Casey, same wheat colored hair, same build, same height, walks to the stage.

"Well say something, my boy." Lucinda pushes the microphone into Kevin's face. Kevin looks up at her, as if his brain can't really comprehend what's going on. I remember that feeling, as if the world is frozen, everyone's voices sound like they are coming through glass, muffled and foreign.

Kevin looks at the microphone and suddenly grabs it in his fist. "Let's kill some kids, yea!" He shouts out to the silent crowd, pumping his fist in the air.

"We have a fighter in this one!" Lucinda Walsh cackles gleefully clapping Kevin on the back proudly. I notice Kevin's self-assured smile falter for a second before the screen goes black.

In District 11 a young girl named Ameera Aziz is called. Her skin is the color of molasses, hair severely straight and jet black. She steps up to the microphone timidly, yet her back is straight, chin up, trying to convey confidence, but her voice betrays her. "I will try to fight with honor for you all," she says, quiet as a mouse, with an accent that I wonder if all the people in her district share. Lucinda Walsh turns away from her and the screen goes black.

At District 12 Lucinda Walsh picks the name Gwen Norbeck. Gwen steps on stage, a skinny girl with blonde almost white hair cut short against her face. Gwen turns to face the camera. She stands straight and strong, her head held high as tears rundown her cheeks. As always Lucinda Walsh shoves the microphone into her face, demanding a speech. Gwen simply pushes Lucinda Walsh's hand away and stares out at the crowd. Her eyes, beamed to me from hours before, seem to speak silently to her district. I search her eyes to find the meaning behind them but the screen turns black.

In District 13, a tall, skinny, bright-eyed, long-necked boy of not more than sixteen stood on stage, answering Lucinda Walsh's questions politely. This boy's face was soft, doughy but in the sweet cherub way. He had dark eyes that felt inside my heart like melting chocolate. His black hair was swept back with a tiny amount of grease. He smiled and nodded politely to Lucinda Walsh and even gave his Mayor a hug when she came over for her interview. Something inside me stirred, like it did when I looked at Casey secretly. He was attractive, no, scratch that, he was gorgeous. He looked safe and pure and clean.

"Ladies and Gentleman give another round of applause for your Offering, Reg Addington!"

The crowd erupts in excited cheers. Not for the game, but for the boy. I can see on the tear-streaked faces of his district that they all love him, the soft, gentle, polite, beautiful boy.

I am to kill him and his mission is to kill me.

My throat tightens around me like morning glory winding around a tree. My eyes burn with mists of tears and my nostrils begin to drum around collecting mucus. I don't want to kill him. I don't hate him. I have no reason to murder innocent children like myself. They have done nothing to me. We have done nothing wrong.

I wish I could hate all of The Offerings. It would be so much easier to kill them if I did. I wish I could hate them, but I can't. The Republic put us here, children thrown into a stadium to be murdered for sport; they are the ones I hate. I don't want to play their game. I don't want to be their pawn. I irefuse/i to murder anyone. Like Reid Oliver, I'll take a stand -even if that leads to my own death.

"Luke?" I look over towards the voice. Craig Montgomery's face is swimming in a haze. I blink my eyes to clear the smog but the images in the room begin to fade. Suddenly I can feel my heart shaking like a train inside my chest. I gasp for air as a sudden weight presses down against my throat like fingers pinching an apple off the stem. I reach for my drink to cure the lightheadedness but all I can see is the twinkling of fireflies as I feel the glass in my hand shatter.


	4. The Waiting Game

Chapter 4 –

I open my eyes to see I'm once again in my compartment, the train still rattling against the tracks. I close my eyes tight and open them again, hoping this time to see my bedroom back home, to hear my siblings snoring beside me. The room remains the same, rocking back and forth as the train speeds towards my death. I can feel my whole body sink as my insides are pulled down to the pit of my stomach. Reality has paralyzed my nerves and I am immobilized by my fear. Images of my siblings growing up and starting their own families that I'll never meet flash before my eyes. The birthdays I'll miss, the winter holidays that I'll never see. I miss the smell of pine already. The trees in the orchard were going to start blooming soon. My favorite part of the year is when the earth comes alive with blossoms in pale reds and yellows. Maybe that's what we all are, filled with an incredible drive to live, a surge of rebirth right before the end.

My body rushes in an excited heat that prickles the back of my neck. The fleeting thought of winning, of bringing back the title of Champion and returning to my family victorious, rushes up my spine. We would no longer starve or freeze. Winners get to live in the Champions Commons with a brand new home and as much food as they can eat.

The smile has yet to spread to the tips of my lips before the idea has vanished. I'm not going to win. I won't see them again.

I roll over to my side, clutching the comforter to my body like a child. I'm close to sucking on my thumb for the comfort. I pull my legs up to my chest as my body shakes with tears. I bury my face into the pillow and let it absorb my sorrow. I miss my family. I want to go home. I feel like a child during their first sleepover, when the reality sets in that they aren't going to be going home that night and they fear they'll never go back again. The empty pit of my stomach tightens and I sob openly.

"I don't want to do this. I don't want to die."

My chest burns, my heart straining to beat. I force myself to take slow deep breaths. "You have to calm down, Luke. You can't fall apart. The kids will be watching. You don't want them to worry." I take one last deep breath before uncurling myself and sit up in bed.

I tiptoe across the room to the dressing table and look at myself in the mirror. My skin has regained some color but there are still dark circles under my eyes and my cheeks are clammy from crying. I pull a tissue from the box on the table and wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I take another deep breath and try to compose myself, glad there are no cameras yet watching me to witness my meltdown.

I'm jolted forward suddenly; lotion bottles fall off the dressing table as the train squeals to a halt. The door to my room slides open and Craig Montgomery peeks his ugly face in.

"Get dressed, boy," He growls and then walks away.

I open up the bureau to find a pair of jeans and a simple black long sleeved shirt with a blue number 8 on the chest. I put the clothes on and am surprised by their perfect fit. I don't think I've ever worn clothes that have fit me correctly.

I pull the sweater down over my belt and check myself out in the mirror, turning side to side, grinning at how good the well-fitting clothes make my body look.

"At least you'll look good for your death, Snyder," I laugh to myself, hearing Casey's voice in my head.

"Let's go kid." I turn around quickly to see that Craig Montgomery has once again appeared. I follow him down the train cars to the front, my heart hammering faster with every step.

The train door slides open, musty air fills my lungs, carrying the undistinguishable cries from a sea of flamboyantly dressed people who surround the train. Some have their hair dyed bright pink, orange, and blue, like the changing of a sunset. Elaborate hats don their heads decorated with wild feathers and sparkling sequins. Their faces are painted, heavy like masks. They blend together as one screaming nightmare.

Craig pushes me forward. My feet stumble over each other as hands claw at my arms and face. I can no longer hear their screams; I have been deafened. I reach the street where Craig pushes me into a strange looking carriage. It has warm leather seats inside and strange buckles. The carriage jolts and sputters before moving down the road, pulled by invisible horses.

I stare out the window as we pass building after building with white walls of marble that tower over me, blocking out the sun as we pass in their shadow. The buildings must be as tall as a hundred of our own cottages stacked on top of one another. As we continue on, twisting through the maze of tall buildings, elegant, manicured gardens of flowers and cement creatures that spout water, spread out in courtyards between the buildings. Children wearing bright clothes, reminiscent of Mayor Coleman, dance in the flowers, carefree and laughing. Children my age. The Reaping age. Children who will only ever see the arena on TV.

We turn a corner and I now see a large lake, pristinely blue, with the sunlight sparkling on its calm surface. The lake is encircled by a walk way and in the middle is an island where a gigantic marble statue of President Hughes is erected. I've seen the statue before, on the TV whenever The Republic issues a statement. They use the picture of the statue as an opening, letting us know an important announcement from The Republic is about to be broadcast.

We turn again and the statue drifts away in the back window. Everything in The Republic seems to look the same, tall buildings, beautiful gardens, and happy colorful people.

The Republic is polished, sleek and sterile.

The carriage stops outside a round short building that doesn't seem to have a roof. Craig pushes me out the door and I follow him into a tunnel made of stone.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"To meet your fans."

As the light from the tunnel's exit grows, the walls being to vibrate. A muffled roar begins to amplify around me. I feel trapped, in a cave with no exit except one that leads to the mouth of a wild animal.

I emerge from the tunnel and find myself in the middle of a gigantic stadium. Circling me are thousands of Republic citizens. They wave signs and banners depicting the name or likeness of their favorite Offering. Some even have signs for whom they want to see die. Colored lights swing around the stadium like a rainbow. Large screens project my bewildered face to the wild crowd.

"Luke Snyder of District 8!" A deep baritone voice booms over the never-ending thunder of the crowd.

"Wave." Craig whispers in my ear.

I look up at him, my brows stitched in confusion. Wave? Why would I wave to these people who only want to see me die? They look as if they've gone mad, mouths open wide, screaming into the air already full of other's unintelligible words.

Craig leads me around the arena. We make one quick lap, my eyes shutting after awhile, too dizzy to focus. I let Craig's hand on my arm guide me. When he stops I open my eyes and notice that we're at the other end of the arena now. Through the tunnel I had moments ago emerged from another Offering enters the arena and the crowd's attention turns towards him.

"Reid Oliver of District 9!" The same voice announces.

I watch Reid Oliver walk into the stadium, his face, annoyed instead of bewildered, projects on the screens. His eyes still command attention like they did on the TV on the train. Suddenly I feel rough hands come around my arms. I turn my focus from Reid Oliver's eyes to the two police officers that grip my arms, shoving me down another tunnel. We walk a few feet before they stop at a steel door built into the stone wall. Without a word they open the door with a long rusty key and push me into a holding cell.

I step onto the bare concrete floor of the small dimly lit room. The steel door slams behind me and I hear Craig and the policeman's footsteps clicking against the stone, continuing down the tunnel. I am alone. Even the ruckus of the wild crowd above does not penetrate the walls.

I take a deep breath and turn from the door, taking in my surroundings. The walls are covered in grey tiles, the grout between them moldy and cracking. Square lights that hang from the ceiling tick and twinkle above me, sending shadows dancing in the corners of the drab room. There is a steel framed bed with a worn dirty mattress and rough looking wool blanket folded at the foot. Near the wall to my right is a glass tube, called a Pod, which will lift me up into the arena early tomorrow morning. On the opposite wall is a small cracked sink, water eerily dripping from the spigot, and beside the sink, a toilet which looks more like a hole they dug in the ground and covered with a splinter inducing seat. Otherwise, the room is bare and bleak. The appearance of this room contrasts jarringly with the opulence of the train car. The conditions here are worse than my district.

I sit on the cot and it squeaks and groans with my weight. The dripping of the sink plants the seed of a headache at the front of my brain. Each _drap drap_ spreads the throbbing sensation a little further until my whole brain is humming in pain. I reach up to scratch my head, as if to tear the headache out.

Between drips of the faucet, the walls echo with the _pitter pat_ of my feet nervously tapping against the cement floor. The bare tile walls heighten each sound I make from each subtle movement. I'm boxed in, like a casket, already in my grave. Dead beneath the roaring crowd.

I stare out into the drab molding room numbly. No, more like waiting. Waiting for my family to bust through the door laughing. Exclaiming, "Just kidding!" and bring me home. Saying my whole journey since my name was called was one big practical joke. Or better yet, the world we live in is a joke and they're taking me somewhere we can be free.

I snort and it echoes off the bare walls as well, making me feel like someone else is in the room with me. Except for last night on the train I've never slept in a room alone before. Back home all five of us sleep in the same bedroom. My brother, sisters and I share the same bed. Their feet always kicked me, or their breath tickled my neck, their little hands reach up and claw at my arms trying to hold on to something when they have a bad dream. I used to get annoyed at the inconvenience, never slept a peaceful night. Now in the emptiness of my holding cell, I yearn for another human being to cling on to.

I am startled awake by a clanging at the door. I watch as a smaller door cut out from the bottom of the steel opens and a tray of food is slid inside my room. The smaller door then clatters closed again and someone on the other side locks it.

I get up groggily, my muscles sore and tight from the uncomfortable mattress and springs I was forced to sleep on all night. I bend down to rub my calves as I make my way to the tray and pick it up.

The tray has different compartments in it and each is filled with a different food. There's a glass of milk, a biscuit that gleams with butter, steaming eggs, greasy sausage links, and a few pieces of sliced fruit.

I sit back down on my cot and eat the food slowly, savoring each bite, reminding myself to enjoy, this will be the last good meal I'll eat. I clean my plate and lick it for good measure, making sure each crumb has been consumed. I'll need a full stomach and all my strength today if I have any chance to out run the stronger players.

The door creeks again, opening slowly. I stand up, my heart beginning to race. Is this it? Has the time already come?

Craig steps into the room, his arms full of clothing for me. Each Offering wears their District's colors on regulation uniforms so that no one has an advantage; we all start out with the exact same things.

"I see you ate, good. Get dressed." Craig barks, handing over the pile of clothes.

"Could you maybe, turn around?" I ask, flushing.

Craig rolls his eyes, but turns his back anyway. I slip out of my old clothes from the train and leave them in a pile on the cement floor. I smile to myself, a little bit of rebellion, my mother not here to berate me for not folding them and putting them away.

I pull on the crisp white T-shirt that will soon be caked in mud and possibly drenched in my own blood. A large 8 is printed in blue on the front and back of the T-shirt. I pull on the jean pants issued to me, I marvel once again at how well my clothes fit. I slide my hands into the pockets and find that they are deceptively deep. A black leather belt is looped through the waist. It has the ability to carry supplies, to keep your hands free for fighting or hunting. I slip on the blue and white sneakers, lacing them up tightly. A thin blue and black jacket made out of strange swishy material is the last piece of regulation clothing. I pull it on, and zip it up half-way. There is a large blue 8 on the back of the jacket and two smaller eights on each sleeve.

"Are you ready, Luke?" Craig asks and turns back around to look at me.

"To die? No. I must admit the thought that I could be dead in a little over a minute isn't filling me with confidence."

"I know. I wish there was something I could do, but as a mentor I'm not much help."

"Sixty seconds left," a voice announces, seemingly from nowhere. I swallow the lump that threatens to choke me. My heart tries to burst from my chest. _One minute until the end._

"Good luck, Luke," Craig says placing a hand on my shoulder. This is the first time I've ever seen or heard any genuine compassion from Craig Montgomery.

"Thanks, but I'm not sure I'll need it."

"Look, I wish I could tell you how I won and then you could do the same exact thing and come back home, but it doesn't work like that. Believe me, in years past I've tried. All I can tell you to do is to get the hell out of there the second the tube drops. Run, hide, wait them out, and hopefully you won't starve or catch a disease."

I smile fondly, remembering the words Casey spoke to me only yesterday; it feels like years ago. "That's what my friend told me to do."

"Smart friend." Craig lets his hand fall from my shoulder. "I wish I could tell you that you'll make it back, but you and I both know that's probably a lie. I wish you well though, Luke."

"Thank you. You know, you're not as cold and cruel as you lead everyone to think you are," I say. "If I come back from this, after witnessing everything that goes on in the arena, I can see myself ending up like you."

"No, you Luke Snyder, you'll never end up like me."

A smile hitches on my face. "No, I guess not."

"You're too good for them."

I laugh fondly. "Casey said that too."

"I must find this kid, sounds like a smart one."

"He is, in his own way," I giggle.

"Thirty seconds left," the woman's voice says monotone, impassive.

"Be careful, be smart." Craig adds as I walk towards the Pod.

"I will. Tell my parents not to worry, and that I love them," I choke the last words over the lump that is growing in my throat.

Craig nods, watching as I step into the Pod, the door slides shut right before he says, "We'll be watching you." Then silence envelopes me.

The floor of the tube raises and I am lifted into darkness, rising through the ground. Suddenly my eyes are filled with white, until they adjust to the blazing sun. I am standing in a field of short vibrant green grass. The center square looms in front of me packed high with supplies and weapons. I cannot turn to look around me for the Pod is narrow and tight. Each Offering stands in a Pod equidistance apart from the Center Square. Until the whistle blows, sounding the beginning of The Reaping, the glass tube keeps you in place. Once the whistle blows it will fall away from each contestant at the same time and rate so no one gets a head start.

I look around me at my surroundings. Beyond the field I stand in now I see woods to the North and East. Far in the North I see the top of a peak. What it is, I am not sure. It is much sharper and taller than our tulip-stained hill. To the West there is a body of water and from the flat land I stand on I cannot see beyond it.

I blink my eyes forcibly; they are dry from the stuffy air in the tube. I can feel the audience's anticipation around me, though I cannot see them. I feel their eyes on me even though the cameras are hidden. I look at the Offerings that stand to each side of me. One looks as sick as I feel, her face peaked and salty from sweat, her eyes half glazed with fear. The boy to my other side is built like an ox. His shoulders seem to be as long as my entire body. He looks like the boy from the coalmines with jet-black hair and squinting eyes, which are now pinned to the top of the heap in the middle of the Center Square. I am sure that he will be taking a claim to all the supplies and will probably succeed in capturing it for his own. The rest of the Offerings are only white statues from where I stand. I can read a few of the other brightly colored numbers, but the farther away they are the numbers begin to blur. There are three Offerings that I cannot see for the pile in the Center Square blocks them from my sight. I wonder if they are scared like me or fierce like the boy to my left.

Inside the Center Square food, supplies, weapons, medicine - anything that might give someone an advantage in the game is piled high. This is not the only place you can find food, water, and shelter - depending on what the area looks like, but for those Offerings who are from Districts that don't offer the ability to learn about plants, hunting, climbing, and constructing, the Center Square is their one hope of survival. It's also a great way for the Republic to kick off the games. Many contestants will run to the Center Square picking up as much as they can, and battling each other for the best weapons. For most games, during the first few minutes bloodshed and carnage are greatest. One year half the contestants died in the first five minutes fighting over supplies in the Center Square.

I remember the promise I made to Casey, which feels like years ago but was only yesterday. "I promise," I whisper out loud, wondering if there is a camera inside my tube and he can hear me. "I won't go for the Center Square."

If only I could get my hand on a knife or an ax, I would at least have a weapon I know how to use. I look around me again at the deep forest that spreads out far to the North and East. Amongst the trees I will be able to build traps, tie snares, climb trees, pick non-poisonous fruits; skills most of the other Offerings will not have. Of course, I got lucky; some years the arena is a set of islands surrounded by ferocious waves. A few contestants had never seen what they call an ocean before, just like how some of the Districts have never seen what we call trees. There are usually trees in the arena, because the majority of Districts have seen trees, which makes it a level playing field for the most contestants; whereas only a few Districts know what bodies of water are and how to use it. Swimming is one trick that people in my District have no possibility of being able to practice. The Offering from my District, during the year where the playing field was only small islands, drowned before he made it to the Center Square. Another year, when The Republic was feeling particularly blood thirsty, the arena was nothing more than desert mounds with few shrubs, and one body of water. The camera angles they were able to achieve gave the most gruesome accounts of each Offering's slaughter.

Now I stand in my Pod, staring directly at the Center Square twenty feet away. I can see the glint off of a short knife at the nearest corner of the Center Square. Beside it lay a backpack bulging with supplies. If I run fast enough, skirt the corner, grab the knife and swing the backpack on, I could grab them both before anyone else decides to fight me for it. I'd be in and out of the Center Square before anyone else could have a weapon in their hand. They'll all be fighting in the middle of the Center Square anyway, where the better tools and supplies are. Swords, spears, bow and arrows, traps, meat, water, medicine, shelter are all piled high in the middle taunting each Offering to try their luck. One could get sick on the awesome power they would have if they could control the area. Many try and few succeed. The ones who live to see another day are like me; they grab and go. Pick up the nearest tool and run as fast as you can into the cover of the woods. What obstacles I'll find in there, I don't know, but it's better than certain death if I fight in the Center Square.

"Ten seconds."

My thoughts of strategy are interrupted by Lucinda Walsh's voice cackling through a speaker placed in the tube. "Ladies and Gentleman!" she greets the crowds of people, invisible to me, who sit in the stadium and look through the arena barrier at us, and also those watching at home. I can picture my mother, father, Faith, Natalie, Ethan, and Casey huddled together in front of the small TV screen watching me. I press a smile on my face, urging my eyes to soften and sparkle sweetly, as they remember me. "Welcome to the seventieth annual Reaping!" She pauses for what I must assume is a large roar of excitement from the live audience. I can feel their thirst for blood roll down my back. "We have re-viewed all the contestants and I am positive that we are going to have a wonderfully exciting year!" Even in my glass tube I can feel the invisible barriers between us and the live crowd rumble with cheers. Amazingly, as the time towards the whistle and the start of The Reaping draws near, my body calms. There is nothing left I can do. I am stuck here until another glass tube sucks me back up after my death - or I win and the invisible barriers drop away revealing the hysterical crowds.

"And now let The Reaping begin!"


	5. The Reaping Begins

Chapter 5 – A few notes for this chapter: I forgot to say before that in this world being gay isn't a big deal, same as being straight, no one would think any differently. Also, in the world there is no religion, no God because The Republic wants to own people's lives. So Luke has never heard of religion before. His outlook on death is different than yours might be.

The glass tube falls away with a rush of air and the vacuum feeling is replaced with humidity pressing against my lungs. The children to my sides rush ahead of me, colliding against each other in their race to the Center Square. Before my mind has a chance to remember my plan, my feet are taking me towards the knife and backpack I noticed earlier. My body is bending down as my legs still take me in a fit of fury and my arm barely catches the strap of the backpack as my left hand fingers clutch around the handle of the blade while my feet continue their flight to the woods.

I look behind me quickly to see the battle that rages, oblivious to my existence. Swords pierce the sky ringing out their death clatter, metal sparking against metal. Bigger children tower over the small that try in vein to shield themselves from the blows. Skin is sliced, sticky wet sound, bursting open like a too-ripe peach, bones crunch beneath feet trampling bodies that lie still in mud created from their own blood. Mouths of the dead hang open, still gurgling, limbs are torn apart, flying across the air, scattering in the field.

I stand there watching, the backpack and knife hanging from limp hands. I have seen this carnage on TV every year and yet watching it live, smelling the blood, tasting the dirt, the wind wild with cries of pain and helplessness; the scene captivates me, as if I am only a bystander and not a player in this sick and twisted game. I can hear gut wrenching screams of children calling out for their mothers. I hear the tears in their voices as they beg for mercy, and I can hear the snap of bones and the blunt thumb of bodies and war cries from the victors.

A slight movement below catches the corner of my eye and I look down to see a stream of blood slither through the grass like a maroon snake. I watch as it twists through the blades, winding around stones and comes to pool at my shoe, staining the sole crimson.

A fierce growl consumes my left ear and I turn my head to see the boy from District 1 run at me with a knife. His eyes are heavy lidded, his face distorted into a terrible beast. Blood streaks his right cheek but I doubt that it is his own. My legs take me backwards towards the forest as my eyes stare transfixed on the blade coming at me, glistening in reflection of the high arena sun. Branches crash around me as I breach the barrier between the open field and cover of the trees. I wonder how many cameras project my face to the millions of screens in Oakdale; my parents and siblings watching as I run breathless through the woods, hearing the boy lumbering behind me, crashing violently against the foliage.

"Go away!" I scream behind me, "please leave me alone!" I don't know why I waste precious breath on these words, perhaps hoping that there may be a human part to the beast that might take heed.

I turn my head forward as a branch slaps me against the face. My feet stumble for their footing on the uneven ground of the forest, strewn with rocks and roots. My lungs burn as if submerged in ice water even though the air is thick with heat. I suck in the musty air as I run deeper and deeper into the forest. Branches crash into me, cutting my arms and legs. I dodge a boulder and jump over a fallen tree. I look once more over my shoulder but all I can see are the green tentacle arms of the trees covering my path behind me.

My legs scream with fire, my chest burns raw, unable to expand any larger to let in more air, so I slow my pace. Through the whooshing blood of my ears I can hear birds chirping in the distance. Squirrels and chipmunks once again brave the ground looking for food as my rampage through the forest had scared them away. No one is chasing me. I hear only the animals and my rapid breath. Maybe no one ever was.

I slow my pace until I'm standing still under the canopy of tall trees. They have thick gnarly bark and lush green leaves shaped like spears. The ground is littered in an array of unusual plants, most of which I've never seen. Some with large looping stalks, rounded petals, some with thorns or bristles, some bearing fruit. Every color is represented, from the richest peach to the dullest plumb.

I find a moss covered log and sit down, opening up the backpack that I somehow kept a hold of throughout my escape. Inside I find a canteen, a sleeping bag, some dried fruit and slices of cured meat, two feet of rope, and a needle and thread. I flip the top of the canteen open only to find it empty.

The shudder of tree branches and squawking birds snaps me back to reality. The carnage of the fight for the Center Square must be over. The victors, loaded with supplies, now turn their attention to the few Offerings who dove to the woods. The sound of cracking twigs and shuffling of leaves moves nearer. I pack my supplies in the backpack, sling it over my shoulders, and start jogging with no real aim. It doesn't matter, left or right, north or south, it's all the same.

I became lost in the labyrinth of the world surrounding me. The greens and browns of the forest mix together, until it's one giant blob of color in my mind, nothing distinguishable, everything looks the same. The only landmark I have is the peak of the mountain in the north. As I wander through the woods, the air begins to chill; the sky turns dusky, swirled in pink and lavender as the setting sunlight curls around the clouds painting the forest floor in a golden carpet. It looks to be around five o'clock but in The Reaping time doesn't matter. The Republic controls everything; they can make it day or night, cold or hot, raining or cloudless whenever they want.

I stop suddenly in my tracks, like a deer startled in the woods. A branch snaps in front of me. I peer forward through the failing light to see the number ten weave in between the branches. A boy bends down a few feet away from me fixing a trap. I gasp, make an alien sound and the boy lifts his eyes to mine. Our eyes lock for a second and I look into the boy from District 10's eyes, they are dark brown on the exterior, but inside they hold the kind of madness only deeply rooted fear can cause. There's a flicker, possibly he blinks or I blink, and the worry in his eyes is gone, changing now to piercing hunger, as if to say, I'm going to kill you now. He lunges at me, pouncing like a cat, and my feet scramble against the uneven ground for footing before I turn away, barely missing the swipe of the boy's sword.

My feet take me crashing through the trees, into a thorny row of bushes, jumping over rocks and heading even deeper into the foliage. I don't need to look behind me to know how close the boy is, I can hear his panting breaths, his body crashing through the same obstacles. If we are to stay here and chase each other on foot I might as well stop now, I will never out run him. My eyes search above me, the trees, studying the pattern of each tree's branches as I wiz by, searching for the perfect one.

My arms know the way; my feet know the footing. I leap into the air and grab on to a thick branch and pull myself up. Then once again I leap from branch to branch, pulling myself up higher and higher into the air. My backpack that dangles from one arm makes me unbalanced, but my footing is sure, my arms know the routine, I've climbed trees all my life. In my head I am back at the orchard, Casey racing up the tree ahead of me, throwing apples down into the basket. I smell the sweet perfume of ripe apples, a waft of air from the peach and orange trees across the orchard. The air smells beautiful.

I look below me and see the boy from District 10 sitting on a lower branch. I am up way too high for an inexperienced climber to reach me. I continue to climb until the branches become thin and weak. I situate myself in a "v" of the branches and pull the backpack onto my lap. The leaves above me flutter in the panting of my breath. I see the boy through the latticework of the tree branches, looking around him, waiting patiently. I try to slow my breathing but now my heart has joined in and is drumming against my ribs. I think of the cameras - an odd thing to think of in a time of near death - cutting from a shot of the Offering below me, looking and listening for a sign of prey, and me huddled in the tree, hidden by distance and branches. I think of my mother and father glued to their TV set, their breath as hushed as I wish mine would be. I think of Casey and his floppy straw colored hair and his knowing eyes. I can feel him speak to me from inside his mind. I can feel him beckoning the person below me away from my hiding spot. As if taking orders from Casey's inner thoughts, smoke begins to rise from a clearing nearly a mile away. A soft orange flicker grows into a ball of flame. I stare down at the boy below me, he has noticed the smoke too. He turns to look back up the tree, giving one last thought to chasing me, and turns towards the smoke. I watch him for as long as I can, see the ripple he makes in the landscape before he is well out of sight. I lay back against the trunk of the tree. I am finally alone. Everything is silent.

**I look up through the leaves above that darken as **the sun dips below the large jagged peak to the North. I shiver, finally feeling something besides the pounding of my heart and realize how cold it's gotten.I zip my jacket up to my chin and pull the backpack onto my lap, opening it up and taking the sleeping bag and rope out. I lay the sleeping bag over me like a comforter and wrap the rope around my legs and the tree trunk so as not to fall in the night.

I feel so alone. Not because I'm covered in darkness fifty feet up in a tree, but because nobody knows what it feels like to be hunted; aside from the people who are already dead of course. I'm facing sure death because there's no way that I'll win. I struggle to fight the feeling of getting it over with now. I could end it right now; all the fear that causes my body to convulse and twitch would be gone. I could jump out of the tree and exclaim at the top of my lungs, "Here I am! Please end it!" or simply roll out of the tree and splatter to the ground. I wonder which death The Republic would deem more dramatic. I'd have to choose the right one in order to get airtime.

The still dark night is torn by a girl's shriek, shushing the insects contented chirping. The scream rips through me, like a wild beast's claws, tearing straight to my heart, blood curdling, stomach wrenching. The blast of a cannon fills the air and she's gone. A tube will come down to suck her up from The Reaping, taking her to a place only the dead know.

I settle back against the tree as the air slowly fills again with night sounds.

I try to imagine nothingness; what it will be like when I'm dead. How it will feel like to die. Will I know? Will I feel it? Does it hurt or is it like blowing out a candle, poof. Is there a warning or is it simply over? No more feelings, no more thoughts, no more ideas, no more love. I try to remember what I felt before I was born. What that non-existence felt like. Is it the same? When the tube sucks my body up away from the arena, where do I go? Who will I be when I'm dead?

I shiver, my thoughts chilling me more than the wind that howls through the trees. Sitting high up on the tree reminds me of working in the orchards. Casey and I would work the same tree so we could talk together all day. We'd gossip about kids in school, or talk about what happened last night in The Reaping if it was going on. We'd discuss our futures, what we'd do after school, what trade we'd want to pursue. Would we stay in the orchards or go work in the hay fields like my father? I wish Casey were here to talk to now. He'd know what to say; he'd know how to win this game.

I close my eyes, conjuring up Casey's image. His open boyish face, his golden sun bleached hair, his tanned skin, soft lips. I raise my fingertips to my lips, smiling softly, remembering the hunger of his lips against mine the last time we saw each other. I breathe in deeply trying to capture the scent of the tulips that always surrounded us when we were alone and free together on the hill. What I get instead is a lung full of bitter moss flavored air.

My hand falls back from my lips and I open my eyes again to face the darkness of The Reaping. The hooting owls, their yellow eyes flickering like fireflies in the night, shiver my bones. I need Casey here with me, beside me, holding me against himself; kissing me until I forget everything but him.

"Please Casey, help me. I can't do this alone." I whisper into the night. I wonder if there is a camera up here in the tree, relaying my words to Casey who feels another world away.

I can feel that my face is pained and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my muscles. If there is a camera here, I don't want my family and friends to see I'm scared. I can't think of death, when it happens it will happen and there's not much I can do about that except go with dignity.

I feel like a child, terrified of the dark, jumping at every creek and crunch the night makes. When I was young and scared my father would sing me to sleep, as he does with my siblings now. The same lullaby that his father sang to him, passed down through the generations since the great civil war.

I press my lips together and start to hum the melody. Slowly, the words come back to me. I sing them softly to myself, cradled in the tree, "Millions of tulips paint the hill above the valley / Etching the horizon in a red and yellow tally / The wind blows them in a wave across the sky…"

My lullaby is interrupted as Oakdale's national anthem begins to play throughout the silenced wood. Loud horns and brash chords play above me, commanding, powerful and strong. The night sky lights up with the Oakdale crest, below it are words reading, "The Dead." The crest fades to pictures of the dead – children, who hours ago lived and breathed, now distant memories. They mean nothing to me. Two days ago when I saw their names being announced I felt connected to them, one shared misery. Now I feel only relief that they're gone.

Six faces project one by one against the sky: the girl from two, her beautiful face now destroyed; the boy from three, quiet and meek. Next the girl from six with the long curly chocolate hair, the boy from seven with the squinted, coal blinded eyes. Next the girl from eleven, the one with the strange accent, and last the boy from 13, handsome with quiet eyes now gone; the boy that when I first saw him on the train I refused to fight. At least I don't have to kill him now.

The anthem ends and the night sky returns, twinkling stars and yellow full moon. Six dead leaves eight still out there, somewhere in the wild beneath the treetops, between the branches of shrubs, waiting for me. Hunting me.

I suck in a raggedy breath, "Don't cry sweetheart, don't cry." I coo to myself, tasting tears that slide over my parched lips. I imagine my father's voice in my head, gentle and soothing, trying to comfort me.

I sniffle and wipe the tears from under my eyes quickly before the cameras can get a good shot. I don't want my family to see me crying, I don't want them to worry if they see me upset.

My body twitches, stretching, yawning trying to stay awake. I fight my eyes as the lids droop down, blocking my lookout. My head seems to have gained thirty pounds as I sit here and my neck strains and dips, struggling to hold it upright. I yawn deeply once again, clear my throat and lean back against the trunk of the tree. i_Stay awake_/i I command myself, i_don't fall asleep_. /i I wish we didn't have to sleep but we do. We miss so much when we sleep. Why does sleeping feel so good? Does death feel the same?

Anyone can find me if they look hard enough. I may be up high enough that a bow and arrow or thrown spear would not reach me but if someone were a skilled climber they could come up here and get me. If I am unconscious with sleep I'd be defenseless, a sitting duck.

I sit up quickly, rummaging through the backpack and take out the dagger. It may be small, but it's the only weapon I've got. I could sleep with it in my hand. If I'm startled awake by someone my natural reaction will be to defend myself.

But what if I drop it once I fall asleep and it tumbles fifty feet below me on to the ground? Not only would that leave me defenseless, but it might be a signal to an Offering who came upon it that someone was hiding in the tree.

I zip the backpack open again but hesitate to pack the knife away. Instead I use the belt they issue us and loop it around the dagger, securing it against my hip. Now it will be close at hand but not in danger of dropping.

I slide into the sleeping bag further, propping my head up against the knobbed tree, shifting my body, trying to get comfortable. I close my eyes, willing my ears not to listen to every creak of branches, each shriek of night owl, every flutter from the breeze. I will my heart to stay steady. I need to stay strong and brave, remember that enduring this game will ensure that my sisters and brother will never have to suffer through this. They will never know the loneliness of a night edged in death.


End file.
